“Do what you came here to do.”
Owen looked at me.
Then at Nate.
Then he pulled the door open.
He held it wide.
“Both of you,” he said.
“Come in.”
“I’m done doing things alone.”
Dr. Harold Voss sat behind a desk the size of a small car.
Silver hair.
Reading glasses.
A photo of a sailboat on the wall behind him.
He looked up.
He saw Owen.
He saw Nate.
He saw me.
He took off his glasses.
“Dr. Cole,” he said.
“You’re not supposed to be in this building.”
“I know,” Nate said.
“I’m leaving.”
“No,” Owen said.
“He’s staying.”
“And so is his wife.”
Marcus stood in the doorway.
Arms folded.
Watching.
Owen didn’t sit.
He stood at that desk like a man facing a judge.
“Dr. Voss,” he said.
“The night of November twenty-sixth, I was the on-call surgeon.”
“I didn’t answer four pages.”
“I didn’t answer because I was drinking.”
